


A Chosen Undead Arrives

by 914321



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/914321/pseuds/914321
Summary: Gwyndolin meets a chosen undead who reminds her of the brother she long forgot. Under the perpetual twilight of Anor Londo, she learns of the hope tha the umdead have of their deities.





	A Chosen Undead Arrives

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually part of my gwyndolin lore dump that im currently writing which Ive turned into a stand alone piece. Low key ship these two but its so subtle I hardly thought it was worth mentioning.

Countless times, Gwyndolin had bequeathed the Lordvessel to the undead as they arrive and she had seen no change to the state of affairs. She is restless, repeating the motions that she had been told to follow after her father’s departure. 

She never thought much of the undead that come by and pay their respects to Gwynevere. From time to time she would come by and watch them swear their devotions to her sister, their withered forms seemingly uplifted by her beauty, they take the Lordvessel graciously. They seem so pitiful, haunted. Yet her wishes rest with them.

There was the sound of footsteps approaching the old tomb of her father. She sighed; the irritating ones were those who could not mind their own business. 

'Halt!’ Her voice boomed, ‘This is the tomb of the Great Lord Gwyn. Tarnished, it shall not be, by the feet of men.’ 

She saw the figure on the other side of the entrance stay still, at least he listened, ‘If thou art a true disciple of the Dark Sun,’ she carried on, ‘cast aside thine ire, hear the voice of mineself, Gwyndolin, and kneel before me.’

She waited for a response; the figure bowed after a pause.

‘My lord, I thank you but I must decline your offer.’ his voice rumbled like distant thunder, low but clear, ‘I mean you no offence but I swore myself to the Warriors of Sunlight, servants of your kin.’

‘Which of mine kin?’

‘I serve Gwyn’s Firstborn.’

Her breath went still; caught off guard by his words. Staring at the figure beyond the fog door, she tried to say something but fumbled. It has been years since she thought of him or even wanted to think of her brother; who left not even his name as his legacy. Whom she missed his warm expressions when the memories finally flooded back, the only family who would look at her as not a servant of Velka, but a child, confused and alone in the empty halls she had been confined to. But there was a shame in theses recollections; she could not bear to think fondly of him after what she had done to his daughter. The painting room still resides untouched by all. 

‘My brother no longer exists.’ She finally said, her voice betraying nothing. Her heart hammered. _Velka, is this my atonement?_ She asked herself.

‘His name disappears from our annals but he still guides us, those whom he gifted the miracles of the sun.’ 

She narrowed her eyes, ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Solaire of Astora. I seek your brother, hoping he would guide my quest.’

‘He hath departed Anor Londo long ago.’ she said, her tone cold, ‘Thou should consider following suit.’ 

‘That is a shame, I had hoped I could perhaps find some trace of him. But it is not everyday one visits Anor Londo.’ Sensing her ire, he added, ‘Does my presence displease you?’ 

She wasn't in the mood to entertain him, she would have preferred him gone. This undead warrior was audacious and far too honest for her liking. _Follow my brother into obscurity,_ she thought, _and leave me to mourn._

‘If I could stay a little longer, to wander the rest of these halls where the gods once reside, I can leave you in peace and myself satisfied.’

There was no reply at first. _You were always the gentlest_ , Gwynevere's words rang in her mind as she eyed the fog door, _But gentleness can lead to your downfall._

‘What do you know of my brother?’ she said. She lowered her catalyst and knelt down, ‘Tell me what he is to you sunlight warriors.’

‘I'm afraid it will be a long story.’

‘You are in Lordran.’ she countered, ‘Time is of no one's concern.’

There was a puff of laughter, almost inaudible if it wasn't for the overbearing silence that caught everything. And then he told her. Elaborating tales crafted by decades of storytelling - he told her of when her brother gifted the warriors with his own miracles, rewarding the band of warriors who stood their ground against demons. He told her of the stories that followed, those who claimed to have seen her brother, those who followed dragons in hope for a similar enlightenment. 

Her brother, from these stories, was hard a strict mentor to his followers. He rewarded diligence and ingenuity and had no patience for acts of cowardice. He was not a merciful god, and compared to their father, he was not impressed by magic tricks. He fell in love with the dragons not out of compassion but out of sheer awe in their power which could match his own.

Briefly, she wondered if she should be ashamed for never knowing this side of her brother - but she was enthralled; leaned forward with her hands on her lap, speaking out of turn when the man left her hanging. All formalities were forgotten; all her guilt was put to one side. She wondered if Priscilla would have wanted to hear these stories. She could not tell her but she did her best to remember every tale, hoping. 

They talked until they forgot themselves; time was a murky abyss in Lordran but time right now felt like it didn't exist beyond Solaire’s words. She was lulled by his voice, captivated by his tales.

'That's all I have to offer.’ Solaire said at last.

She smiled, ‘Thank you.’

It felt like a candle had been burnt out, and the room fell back into the same recognisable darkness. They fell silent too, basking in it. 

‘I’m afraid I have to leave.’

She knew. 

‘My lady, may I have the honour of bidding you farewell?’ 

Gwyndolin paused,‘You should know that mine form doth offend both gods and mortals.’ The words came cold and unbidden from her. Not a yes, but neither a no. A test perhaps.

He laughed, ‘I doubt that there is much that could unnerve the undead anymore. Besides I would be a poor guest if I did not thank my host.’ 

His answer was also a test; he was curious.

Gwyndolin knew she should not entertain his request; for she was as much a part of the illusion of Anor Londo as her sister Gwynevere. Her magic maintained the gods’ golden image, her invisibility hid their transgressions. This was after all, her duty to her father. But her father was not here, and even gods were not impervious to loneliness. 

She hesitated at first, her fingers curled around her catalyst. Whatever reaction he may have for her, she was used to it. It would be fine.

Gwyndolin stepped out of the fog and saw the sunlight warrior for the first, and last, time.

He was a stocky man, she knew humans tend to be small but it still surprised her that even at his full height he was still shorter than her. His armour was simple and modest; grass green pauldrons and a tattered white surcoat with a sun drawn on top of it. 

Solaire of Astora removed his helmet and she saw not a hollow but a man with a face so radiant she could imagine him amongst the gods, with dark gold hair and a strong jaw. He smiled and it creased the corners of his eyes; they were grey like thunderclouds. With his helmet tucked under one arm, he bowed.

‘I thank you for this honour, my lady.’

‘You forget thy manners?’ She chided, but her tone was gentle, ‘In Anor Londo, all gods are lords. Thou shall addresseth me as such.’

A chuckle, ‘My apologies, my lord.’ And then he extended out his hand.

He took her hand, his skin was so warm, how could humans be this warm? His skin was coarse, and under her pale white skin, he looked so much darker. Without another word he pressed his lips onto the back of her hand and pulled away.

‘Until we meet again.’

They never did, even after the flames had been linked. If it had been because of him, she would have no way of knowing.


End file.
